


Piano Music

by sunsetmog



Category: Top Gear (UK) RPF
Genre: Explicit reference to Hammond's accident, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-04-06
Updated: 2007-04-06
Packaged: 2017-10-31 01:30:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/338403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunsetmog/pseuds/sunsetmog
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which James falls in love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Piano Music

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted [here](http://sunsetmog-fics.livejournal.com/24194.html) in April 2007.
> 
> Original notes: I feel I should say that the language used by Jeremy and the others to loosely discuss Richard's mental state in this fic is based on the language used by them during episode 09x01 of Top Gear. It's not how I would choose to describe anyone myself.

(i) _Promenade Sentimentale_

It had been Sarah's idea to invite everyone around for a meal—Jeremy and Francie and Mindy and Richard and James and Sarah herself, all seated around James's dining room table - for a couple of courses including a nice bit of beef topside and a couple of bottles of red. Sarah had suggested it one Sunday lunchtime as she took the casserole out of the oven, nudging James out of the way as she made for the kitchen table. She said, _we never all sit down together_ , to which James was tempted to say _why would we?_ because quite frankly the idea had never crossed his mind. He liked Mindy and he got on well with Francie whenever circumstances meant they were all in the same room at the same time, but it hadn't crossed his mind to start hosting dinner parties with Sarah. 

He nodded and started to unfold the napkins and pass the cutlery from the drawer in the dresser. "That's a good idea," he said, after a moment when it became clear he was supposed to respond. Sarah smiled and dished up and asked James to pour the wine.

So James found himself suggesting the idea of coming round for a meal— _Sarah's idea, don't you know_ —and Richard ended up with his diary out and Jeremy was spluttering over Richard's shoulder, saying "what sort of media whore are you, Hammond, you're booked up till next _February_." 

It had taken Jeremy about two seconds to accept James's invitation, and it had only taken that long because he was on the computer staring at a picture of a Bugatti Veyron and trying not to whimper. Jeremy, James knew, was the kind of Tory who could (and would, and had, and did) moan about the socialists and the lefties wanting everything for free whilst at the very same time he would bite James's hand off at the very idea of a free meal and a weekend away. Richard had been equally enthusiastic and had his diary whipped out before James had even finished speaking. For James, who had just sort of thrown the idea around in the same way as the car companies threw out a concept car every now and again (with very little investment in the final product ever actually being produced), being asked to provide dates had left him a little bit like a deer in the headlights. 

_I don't know_ , he said, _any weekend?_ —which had Jeremy laughing and Richard rolling his eyes and James putting his hands in his pockets and saying _perhaps I should have asked Sarah._

So, four weeks later and Richard rang up to see whether he could bring Top Gear Dog. James thought about Sarah, and how she didn't like Fusker much and was always banishing him to the study so he didn't wander up and down the table nudging James with a cold nose to see if he could spare a bit of roast lamb in the middle of dinner. And possibly a bit of gravy, no not that bit. That bit. Over there. The bit on James's fork. James had never considered himself a cat sort of man, but then Fusker had come along and worked out how to achieve world domination with James's aid in about four seconds flat. It was like Pinky and the Brain, and for once James wasn't the Brain. "Of course," James said, as Fusker curled in and out of his legs, meowing softly. "The more the merrier. But you're cleaning up after him." 

"Scout's honour," Richard said, crackly at the end of the phone. Richard had chosen the only mobile phone network in the country that hadn't bothered putting a mast up within an eighty mile radius of Richard's house, and he was habitually breaking up and shouting down the line in a vague attempt at communication, a joke that Clarkson was probably never going to drop. 

Clarkson rang from Threshers, asking what sort of wine to bring (I'd have just brought a bottle of plonk, but now you've gone all hoighty-toity on us and done the wine tour I thought you wouldn't let me in if I brought the wrong sort of Claret) and in the end James rolled his eyes and called Clarkson a pompous git and passed the phone over to Sarah to speak to Francie. 

They ended up running out of wine about the same time that they got to the cheese course; Jeremy loud and red-cheeked in the corner, going through James's record collection and asking if he had anything written after the first World War (it was unlikely unless you counted Shostakovitch, James said, cutting himself a large slice of goat's cheese and choosing to ignore his jazz collection in the study). Francie was talking to Sarah and Mindy about children growing up in the country, and James ended up sitting back in his chair and letting Fusker curl up in his lap, occasionally sticking his claws in whenever he fancied another bit of cold beef. Richard was sitting opposite him, absently feeding bits of meat to the dog (ignoring Mindy's disapproving glances), surveying the last remaining drops of red wine in his glass and avoiding the stilton in favour of cutting himself a crumbly slice of Cheshire. 

James thought abstractedly that cheese rather reflected the person. Jeremy liked his cheese the more obnoxious the better. He liked ones that had to be kept in steel lock-down boxes and only eaten between consenting adults in the privacy of their own fume cupboard, a nice bit of sweaty, damp, pugnacious, putrid cheese the stronger the better. Richard bought the poncy plastic wrapped cheeses you could get in Sainsburys or Waitrose or Marks and Spencer's food hall. James got his cheese from the cheesemongers in Hammersmith or from the farm shop if he ended up in the country for the weekend, which probably could have said all you needed to know about James, except it didn't because James tended to buy strong cheddar and hard goats cheese and that was about it. 

James thought there was probably a column in there somewhere, if he poked at the idea long enough and hard enough with a stick. He wondered if there was a pen about, and perhaps a bit of paper. Sarah got annoyed with him if he wrote on the napkins, even if they were _his_ napkins and she didn't even live here. 

Richard caught his eye and raised his glass in a private toast, smiling. "To good food," he said. 

James nodded, angling his glass in retort. "And good wine."

"And bloody enough of it," Jeremy said, knocking back the remains of his wine with a slab of the strongest cheese on the board. " I think, boys, we may have to decamp to the pub."

James's local was a faux country hotel in which Jeremy, Francie, Richard and Mindy were booked for the night. James feared the bar would never be the same again after unwittingly hosting a Top Gear social, but as the alternative was breaking into his wine cellar and having to put up with Jeremy manhandling his vinyl collection for the rest of the evening, James was prepared to suffer the consequences. They wandered down to the pub, talking loudly and taking the whole width of the road up. They'd left Fusker and the dog engaging in some sort of mutual territory marking in James's dining room, which would no doubt mean that James would be scrubbing gravy out of the rug the following afternoon once Richard had come by to pick Top Gear Dog up. Jeremy had been distracted away from James and Richard by Sarah, who was very earnestly telling him about fox hunting, not realising that Jeremy's support of the cause came not from any possible interest in the sport; Jeremy's politics were currently rooted in a desire to scupper anything Tony Blair came up with and more significantly because he was annoyed by any bearded left-wing politically-correct jumper-wearing animal-rights protesters, who should all be put up against the wall and shot when the revolution came for driving really bad cars and hogging up the countryside on a Sunday. 

Sarah moved on from fox hunting to countryside protection, and James was reminded that Sarah really hadn't watched an episode of Top Gear in her life because otherwise she would never, ever have started a conversation about maintaining rambling routes and the pleasure of a good walk on a Sunday afternoon with Jeremy Clarkson, who despised the country in all its forms except as a way in which to drive his cars fast and escape Ken Livingstone's exorbitant driving fees. By the time they reached the crossroads half a mile away, where the hotel rested comfortably at the opposite side of the road, Jeremy turned round and yelled that if Sarah was a man then she would have a _beard_. James coughed. Jeremy was probably right.

James had tried to turn Jeremy and Richard onto beer— _proper_ beer, not that mass produced rubbish—but Jeremy and Richard just did it to wind him up now, laughing and ordering Fosters or Castlemaine XXXX or even Tetleys and pretending how much they were enjoying it. "You're both _cocks_ ," James said, happily, enjoying his brown ale and pretending not to notice Jeremy and Richard drinking Heineken. 

They ended up sitting by the fire, the women rolling their eyes and sharing a bottle of wine as the men got louder. It was the perennial argument of choice, the Ferrari versus the Porsche 911, and just as Jeremy was protesting loudly that _anyone_ who thought the Porsche a better looking car than a Ferrari deserved to have their eyes gouged out with a rusty spoon, James finished his pint. "Is that a Nissan Sunny?" he asked, pointing out of the window into the car park. 

Jeremy stood up quickly. "Right," he said, pushing the table back and marching out of the pub. 

Richard grinned. "I'm not going to miss this," he muttered to James, leaning across him and grabbing his jacket. "Is there anything out there he can make a catapult from?"

James's cheek was warm from Richard's breath. "Um," he said, stupidly. His fingers closed around his empty pint glass for a moment, before following them out to a chorus of _don't let them do anything_ stupidfrom behind him. 

Once in the car park, Jeremy had unlocked his Volvo ("you brought the Volvo?" Richard asked, grinning. "shut up," Jeremy said, shortly), fumbled in the glove compartment and come out with a box of chalk.

"Why would _anyone_ buy a Sunny?" Jeremy said, to no one in particular as he stalked across the car park. "Why would anyone _still_ own the worst car ever made?"

James shook his head and lent back against the wall at the edge of the car park. "Jeremy, you're a complete git, I'm going to get barred from my local because you are a pathetic excuse for a man." 

"I'm doing one of your neighbours a favour," Jeremy said, sticking his head up from the other side of a red Nissan Sunny. "Showing them the error of their ways. Hammond, give me a hand." He threw a piece of chalk at Richard's head, which Richard caught expertly. 

Richard snorted, hid the chalk behind his back and shook his head. "Jeremy, you're the world's worst sportsman. Where the bloody hell did that go?" Richard grinned at James, saying under his breath, "Want to decorate Jezza's car?"

James raised an eyebrow. "Of course."

They ended up scrawling _Volvos are for boring old men in pullovers_ in large letters across the bonnet. James was sober enough to worry about it scratching the paintwork and Jeremy's subsequent incandescent rage, but all was fair in car park politics, so he took the proffered chalk from Richard and wrote _cock_ on the driver's door. 

Giggling like kids, James and Richard snuck out from behind the Volvo and found themselves alone in the middle of the car park. 

"Jeremy?" James said, looking around. The Nissan still looked in one piece, and Jeremy was no where to be seen. 

Jeremy called them over to a 2001 Honda Civic. He'd written _get a new car, idiot_ in large letters across the bonnet, and was crouching down next to a Renault, crossing out the 'd' for diesel and scrawling _get a PETROL engine_ underneath. 

"I hate you both," James said decidedly, "We're going to get arrested."

"We're giving them the benefit of our expertise, May," Jeremy said darkly, before spotting a 1997 Fiat Panda and hightailing it across the car park. 

"We're going to _prison_ ," James said, crossing his arms. 

Richard grinned, standing beside him. " _Jeremy's_ going to prison. We're going to be the ones refusing to bail him out." 

"Francie gets all the good jobs." 

"Hey!" Jeremy shouted across the car park. "They've souped it up! A _Fiat PANDA_. It's got _alloys_. Top speed now 51 miles per hour." He thumped the bonnet, promptly setting the car alarm off. Swearing, he did the grown up thing and legged it across the road and over the wall into what passed for a wood in Hammersmith. 

"Shit," Richard snorted, grabbing James's sleeve, "Run, you prick, before they catch us." 

James shook his head, laughing, and allowed himself to be dragged across the gravel by Richard. "I'm never inviting you over ever again," James found himself saying, following Richard over the road and throwing himself haphazardly over the wall. They crouched down, peering through the gaps to keep a close eye on the inhabitants of the bar, who'd wandered out into the car park to try and ascertain whose car alarm was going off. 

"Who'd soup up a _Fiat Panda_?" Richard asked, in wonderment, kneeling on a damp patch of moss. 

"You're both cocks," James said. "Scrap that, we're all cocks." 

Richard snorted into his sleeve, eyes bright. His gaze met James's for a moment. "You wouldn't have us any other way."

"Yeah, because I love kneeling in mud when I could be in the pub having a pint," James grumbled, looking down at his jeans in the dark. His knees were wet. 

"Wonder where Clarkson got to?" Richard asked, after a moment. 

"Hopefully he's drowning in the stream," James muttered darkly. 

"Or caught in a rabbit trap."

"Or being mauled by badgers." 

Richard narrowed his eyes. "Do badgers maul?" 

"Most creatures would be driven to mauling if faced with Clarkson," James said, kneeling up to try and get a better look if the coast was clear and they could return to the pub. 

"Get down, you idiot." Richard grabbed James's shoulder and yanked him down beneath the top of the wall. "They'll see us." 

"I'm not entirely sure we're the fugitives here-"

-Richard's thumb pressed a warning into James's shoulder, before his hand moved down into the small of James's back, resting for a moment in the curve of his spine. Just for a moment, every nerve in James's body fixated on the touch, his breath tight in his chest. He swallowed, skin burning-

"-We're the ones hiding behind a wall," Richard went on. He caught James's eye for a moment, clearing his throat, letting go. "Guilty by association."

"Yeah," James finished, weakly. His hand was shaking. He clutched at his thigh to stop the movement from giving him away. 

James's knees were wet from kneeling in the grass. He tried to catch his breath, cough, clear his throat.

Richard's mobile rang, the theme from _the Italian Job_. James could hear Mindy at the other end— _will you get back here this instant and apologise for making a complete drunken arse of yourself, Christ, it's worse than looking after the children, going anywhere with you-_

James closed his eyes for a moment before his mobile started to ring too. It was Jeremy, inebriated and red-faced. _I hate the fucking countryside and I've just fallen in a fucking stream._ James struggled to his feet, declined to mention that Hammersmith hardly counted as the countryside even though it had a wood and a stream, and went to rescue Jeremy from his watery trap.

 

(ii) _Satie—Gnossiennes No.1_

Richard rang him up one Tuesday afternoon when James was staring half heartedly at his computer, trying to finish off his column for the Telegraph. "Fancy getting one up on Jeremy?" Richard said, without saying hello. 

"Of course," James said, without asking what, or how, or when. 

When they'd first started talking about doing a tractor challenge, it had been mooted as some sort of follow-up to the caravanning holiday—tractors on A-roads and trailers full of hay and racing round the track dressed as farmers. Over several production meetings, they'd come up with the idea of making petrol and possibly a bit of cash on the side, and the great ploughing and sowing challenge had been born. Filming was due to start in a few weeks time and they were supposed to be well on their way to ordering their respective farming equipment already. The deal was—to make it more entertaining for the viewer—that they weren't supposed to be practicing. 

Richard was suggesting a little pre-filming tractor training. 

James wasn't usually a cheating man, being scrupulously fair even when he was the reluctant banker in Monopoly, but where Jeremy was concerned pretty much anything was fair game. It wouldn't change the results anyway; James would still come last but he'd probably not do it as badly as without practice. There was James May coming last when he was completely unprepared and there was James May coming last when he'd done some practice, and there was a significant difference in outcomes. James was bored of his column anyway, so he offered to do a bit of ringing around until he could find a tame farmer who wouldn't mind letting them loose on a tractor and a spare field (did farmers _have_ spare fields? Richard asked, and James shrugged). James found one not that far up the motorway whose wife liked Hammond (all the better, James told her down the phone, secretly rubbing his hands together in glee, Richard _loved_ meeting his fans) and offered them a glass of home brew before letting them onto the tractor. 

Neither Richard nor James were especially fond of drinking and driving—especially when the vehicles weighed as much as a _tractor_ \- but by a mixture of pen and paper calculations and a series of penetrating questions to the farmer, they worked out exactly how alcoholic the home brew was and limited themselves to two thirds of a pint each before judging themselves incapable of driving. The farmer—looking steadily more assured with every passing minute that this was a particularly _bad_ idea—made them promise not to write off his tractor. It was old, he told them, but still. 

James and Richard chorused that they'd be good and wouldn't break anything. 

It was painfully clear that the farmer had never watched an episode of Top Gear in his life, else he would have pushed James and Richard back into their cars and never let them near his tractor after that. Instead, the farmer chose to believe that Richard and James nodding profusely and promising to be sensible wouldn't lead to heartache and insurance claims, so he handed over the keys as if he'd get his tractor back completely unscathed. 

Half an hour later, when the trailer was half submerged in the stream, the tractor was covered in mud from top to bottom and they'd ascertained that you couldn't do wheelies in a tractor and James was lying on his back in a giant muddy puddle whilst Richard laughed uproariously from the tractor cab, they conceded that they may have lied to the farmer. James sat up on his elbows. "Which part of _don't drive at me you fool_ weren't you listening to, Hammond?"

Richard shrugged, still laughing at the memory of James leaping out of the way of Richard's oncoming tractor. "Any of it?" 

They eyed the trailer dubiously, wondering if it would come out of the stream if Richard merely tried to drag it. "Let me have a go," James said finally. 

"We haven't got all day," Richard said, carefully. "Promise not to mess around with any of the cab settings?"

James crossed his fingers, waited until Richard got out of the tractor and then pushed him into the mud. Climbing up into the cab and ignoring Richard's strangled yelp, he set about adjusting the seat and looking for the air vents. 

"You promised you wouldn't mess around with any of the settings, you git," Richard said, swearing loudly as he dragged himself to his feet, and hauled himself out of the way of the huge tractor tyres. 

James shrugged and grinned. "I suppose I didn't listen," he said, switching the engine on. 

An hour later, when all they'd achieved was getting covered from head to foot in mud and depositing a trailer in a river and then removing it, they gave the keys back. Leaning on a fence by their cars to get their breath back, laughing so hard James thought he might cry, Richard shook his head. "We are not— _not_ —telling Jeremy about this," Richard said, gasping for breath. 

"Agreed," James said. Richard's shoulder brushed his, leaving a trail of mud on his jumper. 

"Can I borrow a change of clothes, mate?" Richard asked, finally. "It's miles back home and I still haven't got everything unpacked yet, anyway." 

James nodded absently. "Of course," he said, and his fingers twitched. 

They ended up back at James's house, dripping mud onto James's bedroom carpet in their stocking feet and trying to find something Richard could change into. 

"I really should have brought some more clothes with me," Richard said, staring with some horror into James's wardrobe. 

James, who was rooting in a cupboard for a clean towel so Richard could have a shower, shook his head. He should really have stopped Sarah from putting things away, that last time. He hadn't been able to find anything since they'd ended things. "There isn't anything wrong with the clothes I wear," he said. "I like brown. And paisley."

Richard grimaced, holding out a blue floral shirt. "It really isn't 1973 any more, James. There really isn't Life on Mars."

James raised an eyebrow, handed Richard a pale blue towel and stuck his head in the wardrobe. He came out with a pair of jeans and a belt, a cream shirt and a stripy jumper. "Beggars can't be choosers, sonny. Go and have a shower." 

Richard held his hands out for the clean clothes, and James was only too happy to oblige. Their fingers brushed, and James's breath caught as Richard met his eye.

"I'll get that shower," Richard said abruptly, looking away.

James's fingers twitched, nervously. He itched to touch Richard again, and berated himself for being such an idiot. He nodded, awkwardly. "I haven't got any of that poncy hair gel stuff you use," he told Richard. 

"You'll have to put up with me with fluffy hair then," Richard said lightly. "If I'm going to look like James May anyway, may as well go the full hog and have the hair too."

"Arse," James said, softly, for want of something better to say. 

Richard watched him for a moment. "Yeah," and he pushed past James to get to the bathroom, leaving James muddy and quiet in the bedroom. 

"Arse," James said again, under his breath. "Arse cock fuck." 

He went to put the kettle on and spilt cold water down his sleeve because his hand was shaking. 

(iii) _Beethoven—Fur Elise_

James wasn't exactly one for DIY. It took too long and he always managed to mess it up at some point, even if he thought he had all the avenues covered and he had checked all his measurements twice. It didn't matter if he'd sat down with the instructions and had carefully read them and even made notes with his fountain pen on a page of his notebook; it didn't even matter if he'd checked all his screwdrivers and used his rule and checked to see if the wall was straight. None of it mattered because when it came down to it, the bookshelf always ended up that little bit off centre. He ended up spending nine hours in his bedroom listening to Radio Three's Beethoven weekend and at the end of it, he'd had to use an old jam jar as a bookend because otherwise, everything on the shelf would over time, gently slide sideways and off the end.

Since Hammond had had his accident two weeks ago, James had put up three new shelves in the cupboard under the stairs, one above his desk in his study, a new set of free standing shelves in the room off his garage (to keep his manuals and so forth organised) and he'd been through his filing cabinets to rearrange his paperwork. He'd taken up cryptic crosswords again, something he hadn't done since he'd finished Top Gear the first time around, (eight down, savings book, seven letters, second letter 'e'... _reserve_ ) and apart from all of that he'd driven to Leeds more times than he could count on one hand.

He hadn't always been to the hospital to see Richard; he'd lurked, oppressively, around and about. He'd sat in the car by a park five minutes away, drinking coffee from his thermos flask and doing the crossword and wondering what the buggering fuck he was playing at. He'd been to the Royal Armouries museum, where he'd wandered round with his hood up (until he'd realised the security guards were following him, and he'd made a hasty exit to the falconry exhibits outside). He'd stared at the birds—the kestrels, the hawks, the owls—until one of the assistants had stood in front of him and repeatedly asked if he was ok, at which point he'd left and gone to stand by the side of the canal. 

He had been to see Richard in hospital on three occasions, each time that bit harder than the last. The first time, he hadn't known what to expect, only that Richard looked even smaller lying in ITU with bandages and bruises and his eye covered up and doctors talking in hushed voices. The second time, he and Jeremy ended up being jovial for the assembled press, and they ended up saying how much they were looking forward to drinking with Richard in the pub and how they were sure he was going to be the self same arrogant little bastard that he always had been, or whatever it was that came out of their mouths when they tiredly made their way out of the LGI and came across a wall of journalists. 

They'd left Mindy inside that time, sat down the hallway from Richard's room in the family waiting area. Everyone knew that Richard and Mindy weren't together and that the split hadn't been entirely amicable—James wasn't divorced but when could a split be described as amicable? The breaking of family ties was just that— _breaking_ —and nothing broke painlessly. James had brought her coffee and Jeremy had kissed her cheek and they all looked the same—tired and drawn and worried that Richard just wasn't going to be the same, that he wasn't going to be _theirs_ anymore. They all owned parts of Richard, their parts, and each and every person that knew him was worried they weren't going to get him back. 

James found himself donating over and over to the Yorkshire Air Ambulance Charity, clicking _donate_ on the website at weird hours of the day and night, when he'd thought about Richard too long and too much and didn't know what to do about it. The website asked for his name and a message with every donation, so he picked names of cars (Ferrari V8 Coupe, BMW Z4, Jeep Grand Cherokee, Lamborghini Gallardo, Seat Toledo) and didn't leave a message. 

An accident like Richard's wasn't a normal accident where he just had a broken leg and a bleeding hand, it was a _head_ injury and everyone knew that nothing was straightforward when it was someone's brain on the line. Jeremy's made all the appropriate jokes— _he never had much of a brain to start with, poor fellow, what's he gonna be like with half a one_? and _not like he used it much, anyway_ , which garnered a smile but not much else. The whole thing with him and Richard might never have happened, it might have been nothing more than James overplaying the odd touch and comment and look inside his own head, but now he might never know. Richard might never remember. Or understand. It wasn't like James had ever admitted that perhaps he'd started to feel more for Richard than perhaps he once had, but he had begun to entertain the notion of its possibility when he got the phone call to say that the car had flipped over doing 300 mph and Richard had been inside. 

He'd remember that feeling until the day he died. 

James just didn't know what to do with himself to fill his days, waiting for news from the hospital. He ended up ringing Jeremy at weird hours of the day and night. Jeremy was as caustic and obnoxious as usual, and whilst James had other friends who were probably better placed to deal with James when he stopped being laconic and started breaking apart in front of them, those other friends didn't know Richard. They didn't understand what drove them to keep doing what they did, to keep pushing at the limits, to love cars and speed and distance and engines and the fight and the race itself. They didn't understand what it was like to work together under that sort of spotlight, to push at each other and know their foibles and go home at the end of the day having done something they loved. Nobody understood, apart from perhaps Jeremy and Richard themselves. It made them special, and it made them lonely.

Sarah rang him up and talked about the articles she'd read and the discussions she'd heard on Radio Four about whether this all meant the end for Top Gear or whether it would just mean limitations on the types of stunts they could pull. James wanted to say that none of this was an _it_ , it was _Richard_ and it was a damned _accident_ , but he knew that she'd rung because they'd cared for one another at some point, and he couldn't do other than appreciate that. 

He rang Jeremy afterwards, not knowing what it was he wanted to say or what he wanted to hear. He told Jeremy about the shelves he'd put up and Jeremy raged to him about things that just didn't matter—Tescos, and the TV programme he'd seen earlier and about the boy-child's low marks at school. He'd wanted to talk about the five worst cars that had ever been produced but neither of them could put any heart into it. It worked though, just for a while it diffused the pain and the grief and the desperation. 

When James went to see Richard in the hospital, he held his hand because otherwise he didn't know what to do with himself. He sat in one of the hard plastic chairs (not designed for anyone watching a friend in pain) and touched Richard's fingers and watched as Richard watched him, confused. When Richard muttered and James didn't understand—when nobody understood, not even Richard—James ran his thumb over the back of Richard's hand and told him it was ok. 

He did the cryptic crossword by Richard's bedside, reading the clues out even though Richard wasn't exactly up for participating. _It rarely turns out like this in books_ , he said, and he thought maybe that was true after all, meaning found deep in the crossword clue - _eight letters. Something something something 'r' something something 'r' something_ —oh, _literary_. Jeremy found him and used his best Bad Car Design face, which basically meant Jeremy dragging him outside and saying "We're supposed to be making him feel comfortable, not screwing him over by reading out random words and pretending they mean something. You moron."

There must have been something in James's face though, because Jeremy rolled his eyes and let him go and took him for a coffee. He watched in silence as James filled in the gaps in the crossword. They didn't talk about Richard at all, which was probably a good thing considering that when they stood up, they noticed a reporter from the Daily Mail sat the other side of the rubber yucca plant, eating a ham baguette and making notes with a biro. 

James rubbed his eyes, tiredly, and went back to his car without saying goodbye to Richard. He went home and played with his train set until it was too dark to see the track, until the sound of the trains lulled him to his bed and to a sleepless doze. 

 

(iv) _Bach's Piano Concerto No.5_

The week before the new series went on air, James had Clarkson and Hammond over. They sat in the kitchen by the stove whilst James's central heating kicked in and decided to warm the rest of the house to something just above freezing. Jeremy looked scandalised, because his was the kind of house where you had to strip down to feel comfortable. "Fur coat and no knickers," Richard said, the first time they had experienced Jeremy's tropical living room. Jeremy had grinned and handed them both a beer. 

This time, Richard was on the watered down pints, looking thoroughly distressed at the prospect of another eighteen months of watery beer. 

James shrugged, opening a bottle of Old Peculiar. "Come on, with that rubbish you two drink you can barely tell the difference anyway, right?" 

Jeremy snorted and Richard rolled his eyes. 

"Just because we work with cars for a living doesn't mean you should drink _engine oil_ ," Jeremy told him, impatiently. 

"It's not engine oil," James told him. Again. "It's proper beer."

"Hmm," Jeremy told him. "I think I'll stick with the good stuff." 

\- Although because James had provided the lager it actually was the good stuff, Czech pilsner. James knew his beer. 

"How would _you_ fancy drinking watered down beer for the next two years?" Richard asked, gloomily, staring down at his pint. 

"Hammond," Jeremy said, "You were almost a _mental_. You could be _dribbling_ right now. Do us a favour and shut up about having to drink crappy beer, will you?"

They ended up ordering Chinese takeaway and setting up the Scalextric, weaving it in and out of the table legs in the kitchen and trying to recreate the track at Dunsfold Park. A new (old?) box of Scalextric track had just arrived from Ebay, courtesy of Richard going on and on about it for God knows how long and James finally thinking it was about time he got in the game. Jeremy and Richard were delving into the box without any regard for James's careful cataloguing system (type of track, and code, and whether or not it had been cleaned, etc) and James was trying to stop them as they just attached them wily-nily, without checking to see whether it even _worked_ or not. And Jeremy was bashing the track together without easing it together and James was pretty sure if there was a hammer around then Jeremy would be using it. Richard was off to one side, leaning under the kitchen table trying to get Gambon sorted, and then James couldn't help himself, he said, "doesn't Gambon curve the other way?" which made Richard glare at him and Jeremy sit back on his haunches and laugh. 

"You bloody moron, Hammond, you've got the course going backwards."

"I have not," Richard said, leaning back against the wall. "See, there's the hammerhead and there's the straight and there's Gambon and-" he screwed up his face. "Oh, buggery fuck, I've got it backwards."

James shook his head. "See, this is what happens if you don't take your time."

Jeremy raised his eyebrow. "I'm going to have to kill you, May," he said, wielding a piece of scalextric track dangerously close to James's ear. "Beaten to death. No jury would convict."

Richard rolled his eyes and branched off on his own, stealing a great big length of track and a suitcase full of new pieces. He'd been amazed at how much track James owned, but then James was a fully paid up member of the stupid hobbies society and was sad enough to broadcast his overwhelming love of all things model-related to the world at large. Jeremy told James repeatedly that he was a great big tosser who deserved to have no friends because he could quite happily spend the best part of his weekend gluing bits of green dust to papier-mâché mounds and calling them grassy knolls. James was very proud of his train set and glued on, relentlessly creating new glades and stations and roads up in his attic on Saturday afternoons. Richard just grinned across at James (the warm feeling in James's belly whenever Richard did that was fast becoming second nature) and went on to say that whatever James got up to in the privacy of his own home was completely ok with him. 

"Bet you wouldn't say that if it involved _goats_ ," Jeremy said, darkly, eyeing up a suitcase of spare scalextric track and the living room floor. "Bet people said that about _Hitler_."

James rolled his eyes and tried not to watch Richard out of the corner of his eye.

Richard was building Silverstone in the dining room, weaving in and out of the chair legs. It was considerably easier than doing Dunsfold Park in the kitchen, James knew, because there was a book in the box of track Richard had made off with that included a map of Silverstone as part of its Grand Prix Scalextric tracks section, and Richard had secreted it under the sideboard so as not to alert Jeremy to his obvious, blatant cheating. Jeremy was too busy waving a bottle of single malt at James's head and threatening to lock him in the shed (all at the same time as trying—not very successfully—to drag a box full of scalextric track down the hall and into the living room) to notice that Richard had suddenly got very quiet and industrious in the dining room. 

James—who was more concerned with ensuring that his track was clean and _working_ —was unconcerned with the power battle that had sprung up between rival Scalextric tracks, continuing to clean his track with his cleaning solution and a couple of rags. This was what it was always like, trying to work with Jeremy and Richard. Everything became a private challenge—Richard in the dining room cheating at Silverstone, Jeremy in the living room moving the sofa to fit in Monaco and James in the kitchen supposedly finishing off Dunsfold Park, but more concerned with stealing bits of cheese from the fridge and cracking open another beer. 

Jeremy kept running by the kitchen door to get more track from the carefully labelled suitcases and boxes where James kept a lifetime's supply of meticulously organised Scalextric track, yelling things likeGambon _needs more of a curve_ and _call that a hammerhead?_ and _you're never going to win if you can't remember what the bloody course looks like_ , and finally, _it's not surprising you haven't got a girlfriend if your entire house is full of train sets and Scalextric._

James swallowed and refused point blank to look up and through into the dining room, where Richard was curving the track in and around the dresser in a vain attempt to fit the final straight up through the table legs. "Yeah yeah," he said, hoping he didn't sound as shaken as he felt. His fingers curled into the belt of his jeans. His throat was dry. 

"Seriously, May," Jeremy shouted through from the living room (there was an ominous sound of something falling, and possibly cracking, but James resolutely did not stand up and go and investigate what the bloody buggering hell Jeremy was doing to his possessions down the hallway), "how much longer are you going to play your confirmed bachelor card?"

James pressed his fingers into his thigh to stop himself throwing something at Jeremy's head. He painstakingly folded his rag into quarters and poured out some more cleaning fluid, carefully and measuredly cleaning a short straight before attaching it to his track. "Fuck off, Jeremy," he called back for want of something better to say. 

When he looked up, Richard was stood in the doorway, leaning against the jamb and watching James with a funny look on his face. 

"How long have you been stood there?" James said, with an attempt at a laugh. His stomach hurt.

Richard shrugged (was that a blush? James wondered). "Not long," he said, smiling crookedly. "I've finished," he said. 

"Beaten Jeremy then," James told him, leaning over and picking up a new piece of track to clean. 

"But not you," Richard said after a moment, too seriously for James's liking. "You weren't even trying to keep up."

James swallowed. 

"Come on then, Slowcoach," Jeremy said, pushing past Richard into the kitchen, "Where are these cars of yours, huh? I want to _race_." 

Richard elbowed Jeremy. "You always want to race. What else is new?"

They raced Silverstone first, best of three, Jeremy and Richard first. Richard had James's new Subaru WRC, whilst Jeremy had gone for the classic Honda Barichello, Formula One rather than Rally Car, he said with a sneer. James had gone for the Ford Mustang for when he finally got a go, but Jeremy hid the car behind the sofa and said he had to drive the Mercedes SLR safety car instead. James grinned, knowing he'd tidied up the brushes on that just the other day. Jeremy's could have done with replacement brushes and new tyres and a bit of a test, but James wasn't going to mention it. Fifteen lap race, lap counter on, James adjudicating. 

Afterwards, when Jeremy was sulking in the living room— _you gave me a duff car, May, I'll have you for that_ —and Richard and James were sat on the kitchen floor finishing off Dunsfold Park, James grinning inanely. 

"You had to come first eventually," Richard said, trying not to smile. "Pity it couldn't be on a _real_ car."

"Just because you lost," James said, humming Bach's Piano Concerto under his breath and happily cleaning the final straight. 

Richard elbowed him. "Your day had to come," he said. 

"And come it did," James said, his fingers tapping out the right hand part of the concerto on a piece of track. 

Richard's hand touched his, his thumb brushing James's finger. 

James stilled, leaving the concerto mid-bar. He swallowed. 

"What-" he started, for want of something better to say. 

"Shush for a minute," Richard said, quietly, not removing his hand. 

James nodded, staring down at their hands, Richard's palm down on top of James's, thumb stroking. He swallowed, wondering what the hell he was doing. He moved, pulling away and grabbing Richard's hand so they were holding hands, sat on the floor in his kitchen. James's heart beat loudly in his chest and he couldn't help but wonder what the hell they were playing at, his palm hot against Richard's. "I-" he said, finally. 

Richard squeezed his hand. "Yeah," he said. "Me too." Which could have meant anything, but James nodded anyway, smiling out of sheer nervousness. 

"Have you two finished that bloody course yet, or does it take a master to come in and take over?" Jeremy asked from down the hall. 

They hurriedly pulled away and went back to studiously ignoring each other, fitting the track together without looking at one another. 

Later, when Jeremy had finished griping and they'd raced round Dunsfold and James had come first yet again, Jeremy and Richard started making noises about driving home. Out on the driveway, when James was stood with his hands in his pockets, half-heartedly arguing with Jeremy about how Jeremy would _never_ beat James at Scalextric, not even if they were in the same brand new car and they both took a turn on the inside lane and then on the outside lane after that and everything was fair and James hadn't tried to cheat Jeremy out of his rightful victory, Richard brushed past him, his hand pressing gently against James's back. James's breath stuttered and his hand fisted. He stuffed it into the pocket of his jeans. 

When Jeremy had reversed loudly onto the street and driven off, Richard beckoned James over to his car. "Come here," Richard said, too quietly for James to hear properly. 

"What-" James said, leaning down to Richard's open window. 

Richard lent over and out of the window and kissed James on the cheek, so quickly it might not have happened at all. He ducked his head back inside, reversing so fast out of the driveway he almost ran over James's foot. He drove off far too quickly. 

James was left on his driveway wondering what the hell was going on. 

(v) _Chopin's Etudes_

James was listening to Radio Three so loudly he hadn't heard Richard's car pull up, and he didn't notice Richard until he was stood right behind him, tapping him on the shoulder and saying _boo_. 

"Cocking _hell_ ," James said, jumping and dropping his spanner. 

"You could have been a dead man then," Richard said, half-seriously, "you should turn your classical shit down."

James sighed and wiped a sleeve across his damp forehead, before wiping his oily hands on a bit of material that looked like an old pair of pyjamas. "It's Chopin, you philistine," James said with a tired smile. "And what would anyone want to kill me for, anyway?" 

Richard shrugged, hands in his pockets. "Your Fiat Panda?" he suggested, without a hint of a smile, "Very stealable, Fiat Pandas."

James threw the rag at Richard's head. "Very funny, Hammond. I'll have you know it's a very nice little car, good for getting around."

"If you're an _old lady_ ," Richard told him, depositing James's old pyjamas on the work bench. "What are you doing out here anyway? Shouldn't you be inside playing with your trains? It is a Sunday after all."

"Why am I even friends with you?" James asked, shaking his head. 

"Because of my witty repartee?" Richard shrugged. "Come on, what _are_ you doing?"

James wasn't exactly the mechanic king of the universe, but he was fairly sure it was pretty obvious he was changing a tyre. "Well," James said, "I'm just working on my atomic particle inhibitor, you _cock_ , and if you wanted to help by making sure the car doesn't fall on my head then I'm sure that could be arranged."

Richard grinned and made a big deal of standing by the jack. "How did you manage to get a puncture in your own garage, May?" 

James knew that the question would be coming, but it didn't mean he was any better prepared. He shrugged and reached for the rag to wipe his hands on again, muttering something about nails and hand brakes and forgetting and a particularly gorgeous interpretation of Chopin's Etudes and turning round and the car rolling back and that being that. 

Richard snorted and was already getting his mobile out to call Jeremy when James shook his head. "You tell Clarkson about this and I'll tell Clarkson you were spotted on a Kia forecourt. Asking for a test drive."

Richard blinked. "You are all kinds of evil, May." 

"He'd believe me, you know that. So shut up and help." 

They were finishing up when it occurred to James to ask what the hell Richard was doing there. 

Richard shrugged. "Thought you could make me a cup of tea," he said, avoiding James's eye. 

James thought back to the kiss on the driveway a week earlier, a split second of a promise of something more. "Ok," he said, nodding. "Let me get cleaned up." 

In the kitchen, Richard stood awkwardly by the back door as James made the tea—carefully filling the tea pot to the right level, and adding the milk to the bottom of the mugs and waiting for the tea to brew. 

"Do you want a biscuit?" James asked, opening a cupboard door.

"What have you got?" Richard asked, a trifle desperately.

"Digestives or Rich Teas," James said, his nose in the cupboard. 

"Bugger this," Richard sighed, crossing the kitchen and grabbing James's arm and pushing him back against the counter. He touched James's cheek with his thumb. 

James watched him for a moment, nervously. "Richard," he said, swallowing, for want of something better to say. 

"Shut up," Richard told him, and leaned over and kissed him. 

Richard tasted like polo mints and toothpaste. James was all too aware of his morning spent in the garden and in the shed, smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee and eating American Hard Gums and humming along to Chopin. He probably didn't taste like toothpaste and mints. 

Richard didn't seem to mind, his hands were in James's hair and touching his chest and coming to rest on his hips, his thumb brushing James's stomach. James sighed against Richard's mouth, kissing him back. James wanted to touch him, his fingers grazing Richard's face as they pulled away. 

They watched each for a long moment, James's breath tight in his chest. 

"The tea will be brewed," James said, eventually, hoping his voice didn't shake. He eyed the teapot, running his thumb across his bottom lip. 

"Yeah," Richard said. 

They stood there, awkwardly hopping from foot to foot. 

"I'll pour then, shall I?" James said, after a moment. 

Richard grabbed his wrist. "How about, you just- _don't_?" 

James swallowed. "Ok," he said, the palm of his hand flat against Richard's chest. Taking a deep breath, he pulled Richard closer, kissing the corner of his mouth, licking at his lip as Richard opened his mouth and kissed him back, hot and wanting and needy and hopelessly _right_. 

When James went through his cupboards afterwards, he found a packet of Jammie Dodgers, and once he'd made them a fresh pot of tea, they ate the whole packet without saying a word. 

(vi) _Shostakovich's piano concerto_

They ended up back at James's after one of the longest weekends of filming either of them could remember, Richard toeing off his shoes and collapsing in a heap on James's sofa, shovelling off a pile of annotated sheet music onto the floor. James wanted to say _careful, they're in order_ , but he was exhausted and worn out and just glad to be in the warm. He ended up in the armchair, untying his shoelaces and slumping back in the chair, staring mindlessly up at the ceiling. 

Fusker was decidedly underwhelmed by Richard and James's intrusion; he padded across James's lap and up onto the arm of the chair, staring disdainfully at him. That wasn't to say that James deserved anything less; James was windswept and exhausted and in need of a sandwich and a pint and about ten hours sleep. Fusker padded at his thigh, lazily informing him he was hungry. "I suppose you want feeding, do you, old fellow?" James sighed.

"Less of the old," Richard said, opening one eye. "I wouldn't say no to something though-"

James just shook his head. "I was talking to the _cat_ , Hammond." But- "There's some cold chicken in the fridge. Could do you a sandwich."

Richard opened his eyes again. "Are you offering that to the cat or to me?"

"Who do you think?" James sat forward, watching Richard fondly. 

"You know as well as I do that Fusker can get whatever he wants from you," Richard said, closing his eyes again. 

James shrugged. He wasn't wrong. Top Gear Dog could pretty much request the same from Richard though, so they were both suckers when it came to their pets. 

James made them chicken sandwiches and hot mugs of tea and even found malt loaf in the cupboard that he sliced up and buttered. He added a stick of celery to Richard's plate, which was part joke, part concern that since the divorce Richard wasn't feeding himself enough fruit and vegetables. He washed an apple for them both and added them to the trays before carrying them into the living room. Fusker meowed pitifully, almost as if no one ever fed him, no one ever loved him. It was like a charity appeal from the RSPCA. James just sighed and dispatched him into the kitchen where a veritable feast of rabbit in jelly was waiting for him with a side dish of skinless, boneless chicken for when he moaned that James wasn't feeding him well enough. Which he would, because he was Fusker.

Richard was asleep on the sofa, feet hanging off the cushion, snoring gently and dribbling onto his sleeve. 

James could see why they were doing this, the two of them. Who could resist a greying rapidly aging bachelor who spent his weekends playing with trains and slot cars and spent his weekdays living, breathing and talking cars? Or Richard, who was a part time mentalist with a particularly annoying small person complex who'd try and start a fight with a lamppost if he thought it was looking at him funny. Who cared far too much about wearing matching socks during filming and had a worryingly high annual dental bill yet still maintained the whiteness was entirely natural. James had given up arguing, because nobody smoked for twenty years (and bummed cigarettes when he thought no one was looking right up until this afternoon, sneaky bastard) and ended up with no nicotine stains to speak of. 

James nudged Richard, moving Richard's feet and sitting down beside him. Richard woke up blearily, rubbing his eyes. 

"You dribbled," James pointed out, kindly. 

Richard grinned, wiping his mouth and dabbing at the wet patch on his sleeve. "See, this is why people fancy me," he said, lightly. 

"Yes, that and the fact you're a short arse," James told him, handing Richard his tray. "Now eat up."

Richard nodded, smiling sleepily. He nudged James with his elbow as he picked up his sandwich. "Thanks," he said, pointing at the plate, "for the food."

After they'd eaten, it was almost time for Top Gear on the telly. 

"Want to watch?" James asked, although he rarely tuned in himself. 

Richard stretched, sleepily. "Not particularly," he said, pressing his thigh up against James's. "Why, do you?"

James swallowed. Richard's jumper had ridden up, leaving a warm stretch of skin on show. James itched to touch it. "No," he said, abstractedly, eyes fixed on Richard's stomach. 

"What do you want to do, then?" Richard asked, his voice low. His hand was on James's thigh, curving into the crease of his jeans. James's breath hitched in his throat. 

"This- this is fine," James managed, and was fairy spectacularly amazed he'd ever managed to get past the mental age of a teenager when it came to sex. 

"Are you sure?" Richard asked, shifting on the sofa so that he was on his knees and he was at a better angle to touch James's rapidly hardening erection through his jeans. 

James licked his lips, his hips moving after Richard's fingers. "Richard-" he said, and before he really knew what he was doing he was reaching for Richard, cupping his face (with fingers still covered in crumbs from the malt loaf and slightly sticky from the apple) and nudging upwards to kiss him, fingers smoothing across his cheekbones, thumb along Richard's jaw. Richard's mouth opened beneath his, sleepy and soft and lazy. Richard's hands moved through his hair, cupping the back of his head. James wasn't comfortable, he was twisting in the wrong direction and facing the wrong way and Richard was too far away- his hands found their way down to the curve of Richard's back, urging him over so he was kneeling over him, knees either side of James's thighs. 

Richard's hands were cupping his face as they kissed, James stretching up to meet his mouth. James's hands were sliding under Richard's jumper, his palms flat against the warm skin of his back, nudging his jumper up. Richard smiled against his mouth, wrestling his way out of his sweater, breaking the kiss to pull it up and over his head. "Your-" he kissed James quickly, dropping the jumper and t-shirt behind him on the floor "-turn, James."

James tugged at his own sweater, Richard helping him with it, up and over his head. He'd never been one to be ashamed of his body, as such, but there was something to be said for stripping off in front of Richard, who had whole half pages devoted to him in magazines and whatever. James barely merited a line in the TV guide under _Top Gear_. Richard was- " _Christ_ ," James managed, breath catching in his throat. Richard was gorgeous, even with the tiny scars on his chest and the fact he was still too thin. Maybe they could share their body fat out, because James thought he could probably do with losing a couple of pounds. He traced a pathway down Richard's chest with his fingers, his thumb smoothing a way under each nipple, down and over his ribs to his belly button. He swallowed. 

Richard was staring at him with something akin to wonderment as James touched him, explored him. "James," he breathed, softly, after a moment. 

"I'm sorry," James said, immediately, pulling his hands away. He blushed. 

Richard grabbed James's hands. "No," he said, and he placed James's hand back on the curve of his stomach. "Please," he said, his voice low. "Don't stop." 

James hesitantly began to move again, fingers smoothing over Richard's skin, his chest, his belly. His thumb grazed the dark trail of hair that led beneath Richard's jeans, leading down to the obvious hardness of his erection. James gulped, his thumb resting just where it lay, just out of sight by the top button of Richard's fly. Richard's hips jerked upwards, startling him.

"Sorry-" Richard gasped, "I can't-" his hands were on James's face again, touching his chin, his cheek, his lips. Kissing him, Richard pushed against him and James felt the outline of his erection through his jeans. James pulled at the button fly of Richard's jeans, surprised at himself for acting so forward. But, he supposed, considering how they were placed, Richard on top of him and both hard and gasping for breath, it was probably acceptable for James to move the situation on a bit by trying to rid Richard of his remaining clothes. 

"You," Richard went on, making absolutely no sense at all as he kissed his way along James's jaw, "you-"

James thought that Richard didn't make much sense at the best of times, but take away his control and start stroking his cock and suddenly he lost all semblance of reality and started sounding like a mentalist. Christ on a stick, Richard was good looking. "You're not making much sense, Hammond," James told him, voice low. His hands were down Richard's jeans, flush up against his erection, only his boxers coming between James's palm and Richard's cock. 

"Yeah, well-" Richard started, gasping as James palmed him awkwardly through too many layers of material, "-oh _god_ -" he kneeled up so that James could tug his trousers down round his thighs, struggling to his feet and pulling his jeans and boxers off till he was standing there, in front of James stark naked apart from his (matching) socks, which he was pulling off with shaking hands. "Your turn," Richard said, smiling awkwardly.

"Oh, yes, of course," James said, equally awkwardly. He stood up and undid his own jeans, uncomfortable as they were against his erection. He wondered which pants he had on today, and hoped he hadn't been particularly absent minded that morning and worn his Christmas reindeer ones by accident. The antlers were enough to put anyone off sex. He deliberately didn't look across at Richard. Richard, who was resplendently naked in front of him, and James knew that if he did accidentally find himself looking across at him then he might just fall down or something, because as far as James could tell Richard Hammond was completely naked in his living room and drop dead gorgeous to boot. 

"Well then," James said, after a moment of standing there completely naked. Richard was looking him up and down, from his eyes down to his shoulders down past his belly button, past his erection and down to his toes. "Richard," he said again, after Richard didn't say anything. 

Richard held up a hand. "Shush," he said, gently, "I'm looking."

James blushed red. His cock pulsed. "What are you looking at?" he asked, unable to help himself. 

"You," Richard told him, stepping forward so that he pressed his whole body up against James's, wrapping his arms around James's neck and kissing him. "I'm looking at you," he said again, breaking away and kissing the corner of James's mouth. 

James couldn't stop touching him, hands stroking down his back, across his neck, into his hair and down again, across the curve of his bum. _Fuck_ , he thought, and that was pretty much his last sensible thought on the matter because Richard pushed him down on the sofa and crawled on top of him, his cock brushing up against James's. 

Richard was kissing his way down James's chest, licking his sternum and biting down on each nipple, James gasping his appreciation onto the air in a desperate voice. He didn't expect it when Richard shuffled down the sofa and took James's erection in his mouth in one fluid movement, the soft, hot, wet, _tight_ feeling of being blown was too much and he cried out Richard's name, too far gone to care. Richard's teeth grazed him by accident, and James groaned as Richard sat back on his haunches, James's cock suddenly cold and bereft.

Richard looked red faced and debauched and James couldn't let him look like that any longer. He reached for him, grabbing him and pulling him down so he was lying on top of him, erections pressing into one another. "Hammond," James said, relatively politely. 

"May," Richard replied, equally politely, before leaning down and kissing James. Hard. 

James reached between them, his hand curling around his own erection and reaching for Richard's. He heard Richard's sharp intake of breath as James took both of them in hand, felt his shudder against James's mouth as kisses became open mouthed and desperate. Then Richard was reaching down between them too, his hand encircling James's, and it was uncomfortable and Richard was pressed up against the back of the sofa and James was barely able to stay on as they rocked up and down, gasping _fuck_ and _James_ and _Rich_ and _god_ into each other's mouths. The tension was unbearable, the heat suddenly way too much and James felt like his skin might burn if Richard touched him again. Breathing was rushed and hot and desperate, kisses sliding into breaths, everything wet and the sheer _need_ to be there, to crawl inside one another and curl up and never be apart was completely overwhelming. 

"I'm going to-" James said, although the words were lost in Richard's gasping breaths, and James felt the fuzz of Richard saying something against his own mouth, and then James was coming, hot and desperate and like the greatest adrenaline rush in the world and who needed the Bugatti fucking Veyron when there was _this_. 

Richard followed moments afterwards, his come mingling with James's, cooling rapidly on their stomachs. Richard collapsed down on top of him, burying his face in the hot, damp curve of James's neck. 

James's hand rested stickily on Richard's back, his breathing fast and furious on the come down. 

It seemed like a long time later when Richard moved, unpeeling himself painfully from James's sticky skin. He pushed James's feet off the sofa and sat down, wiping his brow with James's t-shirt. He reached for James's hand without looking at him, fingers curling around James's and thumb grazing the palm.

James wondered if he'd ever get used to the memory of this; Richard stark bollock naked on his sofa, dried come on his belly and thighs, softening cock- he swallowed. And squeezed Richard's hand. 

"Fuck," Richard said, after a moment. 

James didn't say anything.

"I'm _knackered_ ," Richard went on, not letting go of James's hand. "I reckon getting shagged senseless is as good a reason as any to go to bed early."

"You're staying?" James asked, who had been of the impression that Richard would leave as soon as he could. Sarah always had, after all. 

Richard looked at him for a long moment. "Don't you want me to?" He asked, although trying to get Richard to do something he didn't want to do was nigh on impossible and James may as well have tried breathing underwater if Richard had decided to stay over and James hadn't wanted him to. 

"I just thought-" James started. He shook his head. "Of course I want you to, you great big cock, I just thought you'd rather-"

"Will you just shut up and take me to bed, then?" Richard asked.

James wrinkled his nose. "If you put it like that, Hammond, how am I supposed to resist?"

Richard grinned sleepily and led the way upstairs.

 

**The End.**


End file.
